Hunting Immortals
by Aurorax
Summary: Vania hunts a dangerous type of prey in her quest to ensure that she is remembered. Because if you're an attention-starved princess with fire and passion, anything is possible. Written for fiefgoldenlake dot proboards dot com Peculiar Pairings Ficathon.


**Hunting Immortals: **_**Vania's always been ignored, and her need for attention leads her to seek a dangerous type of prey. A desperate call for help and desire to be loved results in some very unexpected situations. Because she's a Conte, and once she sets her mind to something, she hunts it to the end.**_

**Written for the **_**Peculiar Pairings Ficathon**_** at **_**fiefgoldenlake dot proboards dot com**_**. Awesome discussion and lots of great fanfic, check it out!**

**Rated M because these pairings are made of squick, but the content is K+. She is supposed to be 16 or so, and nothing really happens. Vania/Anyone over 60

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I've been told my whole life to act like Mama. I used to think that it was actual advice; now it just seems as if by the time I came along, everyone was so sick of raising children that they couldn't be bothered taking the time to give me the specifics. So I was left mostly on my own, making of life what I could. At least until I caused trouble or made a scene- then I had the critical eyes of the country on me, wondering just how their youngest princess could have possibly turned out so very wrong.

I first fell in love with Duke Gareth (The elder one of course. I mean Uncle Gary, seriously? That's just gross.) when I was six, old enough to begin resenting always being the baby. It really didn't take much to win my young heart, but I like to think that even then I recognized a kindred soul, someone who could understand.

Liam and Jasson had snuck off into the city again with the twins, but I wasn't tall enough to reach the branches of the tree they used to scale the walls. Lia was "helping" Cythera again- being the pet of all the noblewomen and knitting silk dresses for her dolls to wear at the teaparty she'd spent all of last week planning for them. I wasn't invited, of course. Ever since she'd found paint in her favorite doll's hair, I'd been left off all the guest lists; it didn't matter that I'd been trying to give just one of Lia's little mirror images brown hair like me.

It was chess that first day, something that required no exertion on Uncle Gareth's part (I promised never to call him grandpa, because it makes him feel so old, and I never will, because it makes me feel so young.). His heart was bothering him again, and he was with Baird when one of the Palace gardeners brought me in. The speech about the propriety of princesses climbing trees (particularly if they were so small that climbing really just meant falling out) was cut short when he realized that I had been alone and injured outside for most of the morning, without anyone noticing.

Sometimes we went riding; other times we just sat in his well-furnished chambers and talked. If his gaze often drifted to the pages in the training courts, just visible through the wide sitting-room window, I pretended not to notice- he politely ignored my tear-stains in turn. But the regret was just a subtle scent in the air, a light and alluring perfume rather than the heavy sticky-sweet odor that surrounded my solitude. An odd friendship, to be sure, but a fitting one, and my father's advisors assured him it was a harmless way for a young princess to spend her days. So there we were, cast into the shadows at the edge of the spotlight but never completely free of the glare.

That's what brought us together in the first place, or at least I've always thought so- the feeling of being just important enough that you can never truly be yourself. Caught somewhere in the vast wasteland between remembered and forgotten, we were kindred souls, seeking comfort in numbers and shared regrets. If someone had just cared a little more, this never would have happened. And that, in the end, would have been the real tragedy.

Ten years later, and I needed something more. I was one of the Queen's ladies because it pleased mother and because it was what Lianne had done. Because idleness meant marriage contracts, some stuffy lord to keep house for in one of the countries too boring for my older sibling's attentions- being forced to leave home, that was my worst fear. So I played the part of the princess, dancing at balls and accepting garlands of flowers, hoping that just once I might be given a real gift- something like love.

You probably think now that it started with Uncle. That's an easy assumption to make, since he and I are so close. But not many people realize that he is actually quite shy without a weapon in his hands, never one to make the first move. And I, being young and inexperienced, had not yet mastered the proper methods of pursuit. No, I could only dream about the glory of hands calloused from battles already descending into legend and rich brocade dressing gowns that melt into your touch like spun sugar was yet to come. But I was a princess and I was a Conte, and all the world lay before me, ripe for the taking. All I needed was the proper target.

First it was the Lord Provost. He was old, too old to inspire anything half-resembling fear in the hearts of Corus's rougher crowd (the type of people I'm not supposed to know even exist, had Father his way). That meant he would have nothing to lose, and I had always had a talent for overstating my own importance. For all he knew, I could be the pet of the family, changing laws and breaking hearts with just the bat of an eye and a few sweet whispers. It could never be real; neither of us was willing to give up enough to get past the wrong. But that didn't mean it couldn't be fun, and after all this was really just practice. In the end, though, it all came to nothing- sometimes a princess is just too proper after years of chasing the slimiest crooks to ever walk the back alleys of Corus's slums.

Duke Turomont had great potential. I mean, here's a man who risked freezing to death just to watch the Lady Knight bathe. Or at least that's what I've heard, and there's always some truth behind the rumors, right? I used to laugh at the outlandish things people said about my father and the Lioness until I caught the look on her face the day of the attempted assassination- that was an eye-opening experience if I've ever had one. So he seemed the perfect person to get closer too, and everyone seemed receptive; Grandpa Myles was full of praise for my sudden interest in Tortallan law. I did my time, sitting through the driest lectures you could ever imagine on this ruling or that sentence, waiting for the right moment. Finally, I could wait no longer- I ended his one of his longer monologues in the simplest way possible, by standing up and pressing my lips strongly against his own.

You can always tell the moment chivalry kicks in. Damn chivalry, damn duty, damn old-fashioned views and maiden purity. "Just wait," he had whispered softly, "the war will end soon, and then all the young ones will be back. You're meant for war heroes and foreign princes, not stuffy old men like me." It wrenched my heart, knowing he could never see himself as anything but the last resort. But some men can do it, can put their ideals ahead of their desires and keep themselves from getting drawn in. I might have admired the strength that he showed, the dedication to tradition, if I had not been caught up in my own petty fit over not getting my way. Why was I forever surrounded by honorable men?

Someday it will happen. Someday I'll lead Uncle Gareth into the council chambers and see if his brocade dressing gown really is as soft as it looks. I'll learn about love as the Dominion Jewel casts sparkling reflections to dance upon my skin. I'll know how clean Lord Wyldon really keeps his office, and if it's true what they say about his being so stiff. The Lord Provost, the Chief Magistrate, the Tyran ambassador and the Master of Etiquette, all will love me. Some of the most powerful men in the world will turn to me, hoping for that last taste of youth, that last hurrah before they fade away into the annals of the forgotten past. And then maybe, just maybe, someone might remember me too.

So if Father asks, tell him I'm following everyone's advice and going out on a campaign, just like Ma. He'll probably laugh- I'll admit there is endless amusement in the idea of my taking on spidrens and hurroks when six years of archery lessons have resulted in naught but some very shaken spectators and one extremely exasperated training master. But my prey is more rare, and much harder to catch. Yet I know that someday I will succeed, because that's the thing about hunting Immortals- you have a lifetime of chances to get it right.

But for now, I must go. Myles is calling, and I'm never late for my history lessons.


End file.
